


ancient and forever

by callunavulgari



Series: Holiday Writing Challenge '12 [26]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: 5x13 spoilers, Episode: s05e13 The Diamond of the Day, Immortality, M/M, Reincarnation, Second Chances, Series Finale, Series Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-27
Updated: 2012-12-27
Packaged: 2017-11-22 13:55:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,418
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/610537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/callunavulgari/pseuds/callunavulgari
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He feels Arthur’s birth under his skin, like sparks and explosions, and the magic that bursts out of him leaves most of the United Kingdom without power for a full week.</p>
            </blockquote>





	ancient and forever

**Author's Note:**

> Day 26 of the Holiday Writing Challenge on tumblr [over here](http://giraffe-tier.tumblr.com/post/35469673249/winter-drawing-writing-challenge). Prompt was 'foggy breath'. Originally this was scheduled as one of my Axel/Roxas days, but in light of the Merlin finale and the FEELS it gave me, this happened instead. So have one of the many reincarnation fics that we will surely be getting soon! I feel the need to say that I listened to [ pretty much on repeat while writing this.](http://youtu.be/hYrZJo5js14)

He’s been waiting for centuries—watched empires rise and fall with the flow of time. He’s seen England at its best and at its worst, the empire on which the sun never sets. And he’s watched as the sun did slowly set on it. He’s lived through war after war, some of which he’d fought in, others which he’d scoffed at. He’s been a lord, a servant, a commoner—he’s been rich and poor, and sometimes, he hasn’t had anything at all—just the clothes on his back and the magic in his skin.  
  
He’s watched all who he loved die and some, he’d watched them live and die all over again. In the seventeenth century, he’d had a life with Guinevere at his side, her dark eyes smiling at him in the cold. They’d never been lovers, but she’d been a friend, for a time. And then she’d succumbed to plague, and he’d been alone once more.  
  
He is the man who watches, waiting for a day that sometimes he thinks might never come.  
  
And then, the day he is waiting for does come.  
  
He feels Arthur’s birth under his skin, like sparks and explosions, and the magic that bursts out of him leaves most of the United Kingdom without power for a full week. A birth—two women who had dearly wanted a son. A _birth_ ; rather than Arthur rising from Albion like something powerful and untouchable. Real live flesh and blood that tingles beneath his skin—it hurts, having his heart come back to life for the first time in centuries, the organ in his chest no longer just something necessary to pump blood—but something he can _feel_ , aching beneath his ribs.  
  
Arthur is born again, and Merlin weeps.  
  
He doesn’t quite watch Arthur grow up, because the idea of being the creepy old man that hangs out around playgrounds makes his skin itch, but he does check in at times—makes sure the nice couple who’d created Arthur in a lab does well by him.  
  
He does not see him often, but he feels him—two sides of the same coin. He feels it when Arthur skins his knee in second grade and then again when he breaks his arm playing football with a friend in fourth. He feels Arthur’s emotions as if they are his own, and if he could weep, he thinks that he would.  
  
By the time Arthur is old enough, his skin feels like aged parchment, and shedding the spell that makes him appear old is nearly painful. He prefers the aging spell to his own skin—the smoothness and youth of his limbs makes him feel fake. The youth of his body is foreign, makes him get comments about ‘old eyes’ more often than not. Far easier is pretending that he’s an old man, wise in his age, without having to worry about people whispering about how his hair never seems to gray, nor does he wrinkle.  
  
He’s uncomfortable in his own skin, yes, but that first glimpse of Arthur feels like learning to breathe all over again. He’s playing rugby with his friends, some of which Merlin recognizes—Gwaine and Leon he knows, and the glimpse of Mordred’s curls makes his heart stutter in his chest, but there’s a laughing smile on his young face, and he looks at Arthur with love.  
  
History sometimes repeats itself, but this time there is no girl for Arthur to sentence to death, no reason for Mordred to hate him—and if he does, somehow—Merlin will be waiting.  
  
Arthur’s breath is fogging the air before him, laughing with his hands on his knees, and Merlin doesn’t even have to try, because the ball they’re tossing about smacks him in the chin where he stands—frozen like the old oak tree he’s standing beneath.  
  
It’s Arthur who comes jogging over to meet him, laughing under his breath, blue eyes unapologetic. “Sorry, mate!” he yells once he’s near enough, and Merlin thinks about a young arrogant prince who had laughed and challenged him. He thinks of the words ‘I want you, to always, be you,’ and ‘I don’t want you to change,’ and ‘ _thank you_.’  
  
He can feel Arthur beneath his skin and in his veins, his magic singing deep inside of him, so he laughs, rolling his eyes as he says, “You don’t sound very sorry.”  
  
Arthur pauses, back turned to him, and when he turns back around, he’s squinting at Merlin. “I’m sorry,” he says, still just as unapologetic, even a touch aggressive. “Do I know you? Do you even know who I am?”  
  
Merlin shrugs, and feels Camelot all around him—smells it in the winter air, hears the people inside the castle, shouting and laughing. “A prat?” he asks, but it sounds like a statement. Arthur’s eyes widen.  
  
“You can’t speak to me like that!” he sputters, and Merlin laughs, his head thrown back. It feels like coming back to life, intoxicating, a dance in which he’d never forgotten the steps.  
  
“I’m so very sorry, _my lord_ ,” he purrs, dipping into an impromptu bow and looking up at Arthur from beneath his lashes. He isn’t blind—he sees the way that Arthur licks his lips before he opens his mouth again, presumably to continue the banter that is as old as time for them. And because he’s looking, he sees the way Arthur’s expression goes sideways—the way his brow crinkles in confusion like he’s forgotten something. As he asks, again, “Do I know you?”  
  
This time, his voice is soft, puzzled, and Merlin grins at him. “I don’t know, _Arthur_ ,” he says, voice curling around the name like a familiar, beloved pet. “Do you?”  
  
Arthur blinks at him for a long moment, and Merlin can see the moment that his Arthur comes to life behind blue eyes, the baffled look fading into recognition—the way his lips form a name, the syllables twisting on his tongue like heartache and the smell of lake water.  
  
Merlin cocks his head and watches, as behind Arthur, his friends shout over to him in concern. “You should know, up-front, that I’m a sorcerer,” he tells Arthur, words lowered to a whisper that only they can hear. “Once upon a time I kept it a secret from a very dear friend when I should have trusted him. I don’t intend to let that happen again.”  
  
Arthur’s eyes go bright, lips curving into something like amusement as he moves in closer, closing the gap between them until there’s a scant distance left. “There’s no such thing as magic,” Arthur breathes, fogging the air between them. “Are you prepared to prove it?”  
  
“Always,” Merlin purrs back, his eyes flashing gold as the white fog—Arthur’s breath—melds itself into a miniature dragon, flapping away into the night.  
  
Arthur lights up, the smile that he sends Merlin almost glowing. “Merlin,” he says affectionately. “I have missed you.”  
  
Merlin laughs and closes the space between them, arms around Arthur’s neck, clinging tightly as he can as Arthur clings to him in turn. They had missed their chance before, dancing around each other with secrets clouding the air, but now, Merlin has no intention of letting this life go to waste.  
  
The dragon had said all those centuries ago that Arthur would rise again, when Albion needed him most. So he can only assume that the life ahead of them will be wrought with difficulties; all the more reason to seize every moment as if it’s his last.  
  
The kiss is soft, chaste, and Arthur’s lips against his makes the grass go green and new beneath their feet—the tree bursting to life above their heads, sprouting hundreds of green leaves, like spring. Arthur laughs, the sound tickling its way down Merlin’s spine, and it feels like his heart is bursting when Arthur nips playfully at his lower lip before pulling back. He’s smiling, softly, and Merlin remembers, ‘Just hold me, please.’  
  
“I really did miss you, Merlin,” Arthur whispers. “I did not know to miss you, but I truly did.”  
  
Merlin chuckles against his throat. There’s a storm coming, surely—an apocalypse or a war or even a revolution, and Arthur will be the key part of it—but until then, Merlin has Arthur at his side once more.  
  
“Oh, Arthur,” he breathes, memories of centuries where there was nothing left of Merlin save that empty space that Arthur had left behind. “You have no idea.”

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Podfic: ancient and forever](https://archiveofourown.org/works/613385) by [striped_bowties](https://archiveofourown.org/users/striped_bowties/pseuds/striped_bowties)




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